Alternate Personalities
by Corvette Lead
Summary: A tough loss opens the door to a previously unknown member of the team. Disclaimer: Don't own 'em House, MD and its characters belong to others. I'm just taking them into a different setting.
1. Chapter 1

PPTH, Late afternoon

It had been a really crappy week. In addition to the usual tug-of-war with Cuddy over clinic hours a 29-year old man referred to PPTH from another hospital had presented in critical condition with a devil's mixture of symptoms including respiratory failure, decreased cardiovascular function, and a host of other problems. Basically he circled the drain in ICU for just less than 36 hours then died without regaining consciousness.

To cap the episode off the family refused an autopsy, and when the authorities wrote the death off as natural causes there was no way to force a post mortem examination. Net result: an unsolved puzzle.

House was royally pissed and took it out on everyone he could reach. In fact by the time he made it back to the diagnostics department he had set a new personal best reducing three nurses, a ward clerk, and one attending to tears within 15 minutes. Working on a hot streak he offered the idea that Chase's medical skills served as a classic reason for retroactive abortion.

The ducklings, who weren't really accustomed to this kind of failure, took it hard. Even the usually unflappable Dr. Wilson seemed to wilt under House's onslaught.

All in all it was a rough Friday and it seemed as though all concerned were firmly convinced massive doses of medicinal alcohol, loud music, and general hell raising were called for. Cameron didn't even make any objection to the call for drinks as Foreman and Chase headed for the door.

House was still firing his "thinking" ball off the office wall when Wilson made his way up to the diagnostics suite around 8 p.m. The loud pop the ball made when it hit the wall was an indication that House was still wound up from the failure.

Thinking 'in for a penny, in for a pound' Wilson walked into the lion's den to be greeted warmly by his old friend.

"What? No cancer kids to ease your suffering this evening? Or, did Debbie from accounting stand you up?"

"Dorothy" Wilson automatically corrected before he caught himself. 'Shit, that will come back to bite later.'

"Wilson, I'm on a roll here," House grated, "and you don't want to get tossed under the bus. What do you want?"

Immediately intuiting that a reasonable appeal to let 'it' go was going to be dead on arrival, Wilson opted for the ever popular alcohol and babes approach. "House, let's get out of here. If we hustle we can still get a seat on perverts' row at Rocky's. It's amateur night, and we haven't graced the girls with out presence in months. Hell, I'll even buy."

"Fucking A! Do you have the necessary approval from home? Oh, wait. That's not an issue any more is it? Kind of takes the edge off boy's night out doesn't it? You're buying, so I'll supply the transportation. The bike's in the…"

"No goddamn way. We'll take my car. If we're going to get killed in traffic I want to be available for an open casket service. It's no fun if the mourners can't talk about how good you look."

A smirk passed across House's nine o'clock shadow as he hoisted himself out of the chair. "You're such a damn girl. I'll have to hold the door for you. Let's go."

9 p.m., Andy's, Princeton, NJ

A combined eighteen beers and six Jello shots into the evening Foreman, Chase, and Cameron were well into advanced stress relief mode. Foreman and Chase, feeling the cleansing effect of the booze, were also starting to eye the Friday night crowd of stag females sizing up the possibilities for hooking up for the evening.

Cameron, on the other hand, was making a smooth transition from depressed to drunk and bitchy. The interpersonal dynamics at the table were a little strained.

"Screw this," Cameron snorted. "This is just another fucking yuppie fern bar filled with people I know and don't want to deal with. Let's find someplace where there's some action." She shoved back from the table and dropped a couple of twenties on the server's tray. "One of you party animals pick a spot."

Chase and Foreman considered their options and came to an unspoken agreement: Cameron had become a liability for the evening and needed to be ditched.

"Cam, remember Rocky's Road House? There's plenty of noise and action over there." Foreman cocked his head slightly as he tossed the idea on the table. Chase jumped on the band wagon, "Yeah, that's not a bad idea, going to meet us over there?"

Without a second thought Chase and Foreman packed Cameron out of the bar, gave her directions, and said they'd see her in 30 minutes or so. She backed out as the scheming pair watched. She made a left turn out of the parking lot. The remaining pair hit a quick high five, low five, and knuckle bump and bounced back into Andy's for the evening's serious work.

9:45 p.m. Rocky's, Princeton, NJ

House and Wilson had grabbed a choice spot at the end of the bar overlooking the dance floor when they walked in the door, and the booze flowed freely from their arrival. "This is one the least half assed ideas you've had in a while. Keep up the average work and we can get star billing on the liver transplant list." House punctuated the comment by tossing a Vicodin in the air and catching it in with his tongue.

"Yeah, between the booze and the drugs you're going boldly where few willingly go. Sweet!"

Wilson's vague Star Trek reference earned a crack on the shin from House's scepter of power. "Enough. Capt. Kirk himself would be disgusted that you would use a Star Trek reference in this context."

While Wilson was rubbing the abused shin Reginald M. 'Rocky' O'Malley leaned across the bar to see what the trouble was. House was quick to assure the combination bartender/owner/bouncer/entertainment booker that everything was under control. "Back off Rocky! Wilson's just nursing an old war wound.

"But now that you're here, how's it hang'n?"

"Christ House, how the hell are you? Man, you haven't been here in months. Even the cops have been asking about the wacky limper. What's up?"

"Same shit, new day," summed things fairly well in House's estimation.

Wilson cocked his head slightly to the left with an unvoiced question. Nodding in the direction of their genial host House served up an answer, "I saved Rocky's ass years ago when he presented in a drunken state with a severe case of undiagnosed Belgian ball rot or something. Anyway he's been grateful that my magical ministrations enabled him to keep selling watered down booze and drawing a commission on marginal blow jobs in the back room of a series of fine establishments from Michigan to New Jersey. I should have hit him up for a part ownership rather than lifetime free booze."

With the social prerequisites out of the way Rocky shuffled off to keep an eye on his bartenders, dancers, and the mob of bikers in the corner visibly measuring a table of obvious university frat boys for casts and bandages when the late night sports got started.

A skinny red head started off the informal amateur night dance contest capturing House's attention…and more than a few caustic comments.

After watching for a couple of minutes Wilson's attention wondered to the back bar mirror. Just as he was turning back to the dancer someone walked through the door. The new arrival caught Wilson's notice since from sort of a left rear quartering view she looked vaguely familiar.

Absently picking up his beer Wilson continued watching the young, very obviously female arrival walk along the wall. Walking really didn't describe it. She looked more like leopard padding through the jungle completely at ease in her environment. The model's rolling runway walk mesmerized Wilson.

When the she turned back to head for the bar he almost exhaled a large portion of a draft Sam Adams through his nose. 'Jesus Christ. It's Cameron.' He stifled the immediate notion of spinning House around on the bar stool and kept watching. Reflected in the greasy mirror Cameron stalked toward the bar sporting a pair of nearly scandalous low-rise jeans, an old Rolling Stones t-shirt knotted in the front, and a pair of heeled boots that showcased an extensive display of well turned leg.

Under Wilson's discreet surveillance she looked around the bar not seeing anyone she recognized evidently she shook her head. Lip reading wasn't a big skill of Wilson's but Ray Charles could make out the words: 'Cock suckers!' Obviously pissed about something or someone she turned back to one of the pool tables, looked over the crowd of shooters, put her money on the rail for next, and flopped into an empty chair. After propping her feet up on another chair she hailed the alcohol relocation engineer and ordered. Her appearance even diverted the bikers from their planned mayhem at least briefly.

"House," Wilson nudged his partner. "House look up, pay attention and look in the mirror at about your five o'clock."

"Jimmy, you're taking all of that 'wing man' bullshit way to seriously. We've obviously got an emerging artist working here and you're ignoring her. She may be damaged for life."

"House, look up for Christ's sake."

"Why Wilson? What are you doing calling on a deity that your faith doesn't even recognize?" As House was snarking he did glance up and briefly froze before he clamped his well honed nonchalance into place.

"I do believe Cameron's previously unmentioned twin sister has made an appearance."

As Wilson and House watched via the mirror from the security of the bar Cameron glided around the pool table holding serve through four shooters. Take away the model's looks her game looked a lot like Minnesota Fats'. She rolled up the green felt with a wide array of power and finesse shots. In the process, by House's estimation she pocketed a couple hundred bucks from the frat boys. Challenged to put their money where their mouth had been for the past 20 minutes or so the bikers sent their 'hot stick' into the breach. Cameron took his money, and a batch of side bets, with a nifty three-cushion closer on the eight ball.

Her grim, laser-like concentration on the game fascinated House, and he wasn't about to let it go.

"Jimmy, we need to meet Cameon's pool hustling twin." With that House spun the bar stool and shuffled over to the pool area cutting his way through the crowd with deft cane manipulations. On the way he stopped he stopped one of Rocky's minions.

"Take this and drop it on the table for me would you? And slide behind the bar and get my stick." He dropped two one hundred dollar bills onto her tray. The hard faced woman had watched House work in the past so she offered up a grin before hustling off to drop the money and grab his cue. In the interim Cameron polished off another would-be pool shark.

When she looked at the table's edge and saw the two Ben Franklins she looked around the room for the challenger. House spoke up from behind her:

"My, my. You must be Cameron's twin sister Dorothy. How are things in Oz these days?" House arched an eyebrow as Cameron turned toward the familiar voice. "She's fine now," Cameron replied easily, "especially since the Wicked Son of a Bitch of the castle is in New Jersey tonight."

Wilson watched the exchange uneasy even through the alcohol induced fog. One look at the body language displayed at the table told him that for some reason some kind of territorial battle to the finish was about to take place.

House easily screwed his cue together eying Cameron's relaxed posture. "Money is on the table. Eight ball or straight pool?"

"It's eight ball, and since I am sure Wilson's here somewhere he can hold the stakes." With that she pulled a wad of bills out of the back pocket of the jeans, peeled off $200 and looked for Wilson. After passing the money over she looked around the table one more time. "Okay, Wilson's handling House's side action, and Rocky's got mine. Lag for break?"

House smirked at the young woman and flipped his left hand out in an exaggerated 'after you.' Cameron fixed House with a stare. "Okay let's play. And, House just shut up and play."

With a sharp crack the game was on, and play went on for just over two hours of no quarter asked and none given silent open war fought over a faded green felt battle field.

Neither player managed to win more than two games at a stretch, and the side action looked like a South Louisiana cock fight. At one point Wilson figured that he (and House) was up a couple of grand, and Cameron (and Rocky) had to be ahead at least that much.

Wilson was very familiar with the level of concentration House could summon, but this version of Allison Cameron he had no idea existed. It was eerie. The two did not speak the entire time. Beer for Cameron and scotch for House were refreshed when liquid levels dropped to dangerous levels, but neither shooter appeared to falter at the game.

Rocky's Road House, 12:45 a.m., Saturday

As the night wore on every move around the pool table looked more and more like a perverted version of the Tango. The two players touched shoulders and hips more frequently. Each shared look became more intimate. But not a word was said at the table. Even the loud music that crashed into ever corner of the road house seemed to be muted around the two shooters.

Finally Cameron left House with a shot that would require a miracle and the silence was broken.

"Eight ball side pocket three cushions and I'm done"

The next exchange just crackled with intensity.

"You make that and I'll dance at your wedding."

"Wrong, I make this and you'll dance right here."

"Deal."

TBC?


	2. Chapter 2

Rocky's Road House, 1:03 a.m., Sunday

It seemed as though everything in the crowded road house came to a frozen stop. The noise went away. The people that crowded around the table more or less faded into the smoky background. Cameron and House seemed to be alone with a nine by four-foot-six green felt table.

House nodded, took one more look at his shot, slowly chalked his cue, leaned his cane against the table and bent forward to be about his work. From Wilson' vantage point the cue was drawn back and fired forward in excruciating slow motion. Propelled along by a sure stroke and perfect English the white cue ball curled around the blocking four ball, caromed off the side rail, tapped the back rail, kissed off the other side rail and simply breathed the eight ball into the called side pocket.

Both players had identical silent reactions: 'fuck!'

Wilson just sagged back on to the stool he was standing along side.

After blowing out an extended breath House painted his aura of invincibility back around himself, broke his cue down and handed it to the server who had pulled it from storage in the first place. He dipped down to take his cane and walked to the bar without looking back.

Cameron was still staring at the table replaying the impossible shot in her mind. By the time House converted the instant replay in her mind the crowd had already gone nuts. She bit into her left cheek, shook her head slightly, and drained her beer before shattering the ash cue she had wielded with such precision all evening into a dozen pieces over the edge of the table.

Twenty two steps later she leaned wearily on the bar next to House. Propping her right foot on the brass rail she ordered a tequila shot, knocked the fiery liquid back before reaching into her hip pocket. Pulling out a wad of cash she came up with the $400 she owed House for the last two games and slid it down the bar.

House never turned his head when he spoke. "Without taking the time to count it, finished up 'bout even plus the side action didn't we? Breaking even seems like a good way to end the night."

When he did turn to face Cameron a hint of a smile (or was that a challenge?) pulled up the left corner of his mouth. "Yo, Wilson if you've settled up with everyone let's hit the road. I've got to get my beauty sleep." With that he moved to stand up.

The preliminary move toward the door caught Cameron a little by surprise. It wasn't like House to walk away from a winning hand…or dance as the case might be. In evolving phases she was surprised, relieved that House was not going to hold her to the deal, then she was pissed, really pissed.

Filled with adrenaline from the game and judgment impaired by too much alcohol she put her hand on House's chest and pushed him back onto the bar stool.

"You won a dance fair and square, and I'll be goddamned if you're not going to stay for it right now," Cameron spit out through clinched teeth. "You're not going to hold this over my head from now on, and I don't want to hear another word about it once it's done." She turned to Wilson and speared him too. "If he makes a break for the door and you don't grab him I'll make your life hell at the hospital by confirming every rumor that comes my way. You're not leaving either. Sit down."

Convinced she had House and Wilson pinned effectively to the bar she stalked off to find the guy spinning the music. She had a very special request for her performance.

House and Wilson watched her stalk off with smoke in her wake.

"House? House? What the hell just happened?

"Jimmy this is the only time in history that I don't have a clue, but I'm not going to leave now."

The part of the crowd, including virtually all of the bikers and part of the frat boys, that heard the conversation at the pool table were pushing toward the runway for a prime seat. Their shouts for more beer were drowned completely out when first few bars of The Rolling Stones' Satisfaction ripped through the road house.

The crowd's reaction: They just went nuts.

Wilson's reaction: 'Oh, shit!'

House's reaction: Nothing visible outside. Inside his mind just shut down.

Cameron's thoughts as she sashayed down the runway in time with Mick Jagger's classic: 'Son of a bitch! I'll show him.'

Sixteen bars into the song she jumped off the runway and danced her way directly in front of House. As the band drove into the rocking chorus she deftly picked House's cane out of his hand, twirled it through the fingers of her left hand before wrapping her long fingers around the smooth wood she intended to use as an erotic prop.

Without revealing an additional square inch of skin she blended the cane and her writhing body into a breath taking performance while using the immobilized House like a stripper's brass pole.

As the music rolled into the last 20 seconds or so she hooked House's cane around the top bar rail and slid slowly down the lacquered hard wood with an absolutely filthy expression washing across her face. The Stones faded into oblivion and she very slowly stood, ran her tongue along the length of the cane.

Then leaning against House she ran the cane VERY slowly under his nose and whispered in a whiskey rasp: "You loose. Think about it."

Finis


End file.
